Under Gemini (30 page)

As she spoke, he had wandered away from her bedside to the window, as though the lure of the radiant morning was more than he could resist. Watching him, wondering if he was listening to a word she was saying, Tuppy was visited by a strong sense of
déjà vu.

She said, “You know, you were standing there, in the window, just where you are now, the day I felt so ill and I told you that I wanted to see Antony and Rose. And somehow you arranged it. You and dear Isobel, of course. I'm very grateful to you, Hugh. It's all turned out so well. I'm really a very lucky person.”

She regarded his back view affectionately across the room, waiting for his reply. He turned from the window, but before he could say anything, there was a knock at Tuppy's door. Thinking it was Nurse come to fetch her breakfast tray, Tuppy called, “Come in.”

The door opened and Rose came into the room. The first person she saw was Hugh, framed in the window. She paused for perhaps a fraction of a second, and then without a word did a swift about turn and walked out again. Tuppy was left dumfounded, with only a fleeting impression of Rose's long legs in dark stockings and the swirl of a short pleated skirt like a child's kilt.

Hugh recovered from the shock of this extraordinary performance before Tuppy did.

“You come back here!” he called after Rose in, Tuppy thought, a not very kind voice.

They waited. Slowly, Rose appeared again, hanging onto the door knob as though poised for a second quick getaway. She looked, thought Tuppy, about fifteen. Hugh was glowering at her across the room in the most uncharitable way. It was really a funny situation. In the normal way, Tuppy knew, Rose's sense of humor would have got the better of her, and she would have been overcome by giggles in which Tuppy was perfectly prepared to join her. But now Rose looked more like crying than laughing. Tuppy hoped that she wasn't going to.

The outraged silence lengthened, and at last Hugh said, “Who told you to get up?”

Rose looked more uncomfortable than ever. “Well, actually, nobody.”

“Didn't Nurse tell you to stay in bed?”

“Yes, she did. It wasn't her fault.”

“Why did you get up, then?”

“I thought I'd come and see Tuppy. I didn't realize you'd be here.”

“That's fairly obvious.”

Tuppy could not bear any more. “Hugh, stop hectoring Rose. She's not a baby. She can get out of bed if she wants to. Rose, come and get this tray off my lap, and then I can have a good look at you.”

Rose, appearing grateful for an ally, closed the door and came to remove the tray and put it down on the floor. Tuppy took her hands and drew her down on the bed beside her.

“But you're so thin! Your wrists have gone like little twigs. You must have had a horrid time.” She began to have second thoughts about Rose's getting up, for indeed, Rose did look awful. “Perhaps you should still be in bed. And you must be all right for the party tomorrow. Just think of all the preparations wasted, if you aren't there.” She was diverted by a happy thought. “One thing, you won't have to bother too much with the flowers, because Anna's coming over with all the pot plants out of her greenhouse. She's going to fill the Land Rover with them, the dear girl. And I thought perhaps a few big branches of beech leaves, they always look.…”

Her voice died away. Rose was not responding. She simply sat there, looking down, her face quite plain, all bones and without a scrap of makeup. Her hair had lost its luster and her usually sweet-natured mouth had a droop to it which caused Tuppy a definite pang of anxiety. And she remembered the young Rose of five years ago, and the sulks into which she had lapsed from time to time, apparently for no good reason at all. Then, Tuppy had ignored them, telling herself that all seventeen-year-olds were apt to be sulky. But she had never expected to catch that miserable expression on Rose's face again.

On Antony's account, she felt concerned.
Oh, dear, I do hope she's not going to be moody.
Moodiness was, in Tuppy's book, an unforgiveable sin, evidence of the worst sort of self-indulgence.

Her thoughts darted about, trying to imagine what could be at the root of this. Of course she had been ill, but … had she had a quarrel with Antony? But Antony wasn't here. Isobel, perhaps? Impossible. Isobel had never quarreled with anybody in her life.

“Rose.” She became a little impatient. “Rose, my dear child, what's the matter?”

Before Rose could reply, could say anything, Hugh replied for her. “There's nothing wrong with the dear child except that she's had food poisoning and she's got out of bed too soon.” He came back to Tuppy's bedside, taking professional charge of the situation, and at the sound of his voice Rose appeared to make some effort to pull herself together. Tuppy, as always, felt grateful to him.

“Now how are you feeling?” he asked Rose. “Truthfully.”

“I'm all right. Just a bit wobbly about the legs.”

“Did you eat some breakfast?”

“Yes.”

“And you didn't feel sick again?”

Rose looked embarrassed. “No.”

“In that case, the best thing you can do is to get out of doors for a little and get some fresh air.” Rose appeared to be unenthusiastic. “Now. While the sun's shining.”

Tuppy patted Rose's hand in an encouraging fashion. “There. Why not do that? It's such a lovely morning. It'll do you good.”

“All right.” Reluctantly, Rose got off the bed and made for the door, but as she did this, Tuppy's housekeeperly instincts rose to the surface. “Rose, dear, if you're going down, take my tray, and that'll save Nurse a trip. And if you see Nurse, tell her to come up. And,” she added as Rose, burdened by the tray, made her way through the door, “if you are going out, have a word with Mrs. Watty before you do. She may want you to pick some beans.”

*   *   *

As far as domestic arrangements were concerned, Tuppy seemed to have a sixth sense. Mrs. Watty, after exclaiming in surprise at Flora's appearance, agreed that, yes, she would like some beans, and produced a large basket which Flora was expected to fill.

“Does Nurse know you're up and about?”

“Yes. I've just seen her. She's got a face on.”

“You'd better keep out of her way.”

“I will.”

Carrying the basket, she went back to the hall. She didn't want to pick beans. She didn't really want to go out at all. She had planned to cozy up on Tuppy's bed and be cherished, but those schemes had been thwarted by Hugh. How could Flora have possibly known that he would have already started his calls at nine o'clock in the morning?

She could not be bothered to go upstairs again for her coat, so she borrowed from the cloakroom one of the many aged ones which hung there. It was a bulky tweed, lined in rabbit fur, and she was buttoning herself into it when Hugh appeared down the staircase, one hand in his pocket, and his bag bumping against the side of his leg.

“I've had a word with Nurse,” he told her, “and she has accepted the inevitable. Are you just going out?”

“Yes. To pick beans,” she added resignedly.

His eyes crinkled in amusement. He put out a hand to open the door and hold it for her. She went out in front of him. The dazzle of sunshine was blinding. Through the trees the blue waters of Fhada spread bright as sapphire silk, in all the extravagance of a flood tide. The air was like wine, the sky full of wheeling gulls.

Hugh looked up. “They're flying inland. That means stormy weather.”

“Today?”

“Or tomorrow.” They went down the steps side by side. “It's a good thing there's to be no marquee tomorrow night, or it would doubtless end up in the top of a tree.”

They reached the gravel. Flora stopped. “Hugh.”

He paused, looking down at her.

Now. Say it Now.

“I'm terribly sorry I said what I said the other night. I mean, about your wife. I had no right to say such a dreadful thing. It was unforgivable. I … I don't expect you to forget it, but I wanted you to know I was sorry.”

It was said. It was done. The relief of having it over made Flora feel quite tearful again. But Hugh did not appear to be as impressed by Flora's self-abasement as she was.

“Perhaps I have an apology to make, too,” he said. She waited. “But mine will doubtless keep.”

She frowned, not understanding, but he did not choose to explain. “Don't worry about it. Take care of yourself. And don't pick too many beans.” He started to walk away from her and then remembered something. “When is Antony coming?”

“Tomorrow afternoon.”

“That's good. I'll see you tomorrow evening, then.”

“You're coming to the party?”

“If I can. Don't you want me to come?”

“Yes, I do.” She amended this by adding, “I only know about three people, and if you don't come I'll only know two.”

He looked amused. “You'll be all right,” he told her. And with that sparse comfort he got into his car and drove away, through the gates and out of sight. Flora watched him go, still miserable, only slightly comforted, and now very confused.
My apology will keep.
What was he going to apologize for? And why did it have to keep? She wrestled with those problems for a moment or two, and then, because any mental exertion was still beyond her, abandoned the struggle and headed for the vegetable garden.

*   *   *

It was Friday.

Isobel awoke, listening for the rain. It had rained all yesterday afternoon and most of the night. From time to time she had awakened, shaken out of sleep by gusts of wind or the rattle of a squall of raindrops, hard as flung pebbles against her windowpane. She was haunted by visions of wet footprints and mud being tracked through the house as Watty came in and out, the caterers unloaded their cases of china and glass, and people trod to and fro carrying trays of glasses, branches of beech leaves, and large, dripping peat-filled pots containing the Ardmore pelargoniums.

But at seven o'clock in the morning, it seemed to have stopped. Isobel got out of bed (when she got back into it again, it would all be over), went to her window, drew back the curtains, and saw a pearly grayness—mist lying on the face of the sea, a thread of watery pink reflected from the first ragged rays of the early sun. The islands were lost, and the still water scarcely moved against the rocks beyond the garden.

There was still rain about, but the wind had died. She stood there, reluctant to start a day which would probably not end for another twenty hours. After breakfast coffee, though, she knew that she would feel stronger. And this afternoon Antony would be arriving from Edinburgh. The thought of Antony arriving cheered her up. She went to run her morning bath.

*   *   *

Jason did not want to go to school. “I want to stay here and help. If I've got to come to the party, I don't see why I shouldn't stay here and help.”

“You haven't got to come to the party,” Aunt Isobel told him placidly. “Nobody's making you come to the party.”

“You could write Mr. Fraser a note and say I'm needed at home. That's what the other mothers do.”

“Yes, I could, but I'm not going to. Now, eat up your egg.”

Jason lapsed into silence. He was uncertain about the dance because he was going to have to wear the kilt and the doublet that his grandfather had worn when he was Jason's age. The kilt was all right, but the doublet was velvet and Jason thought perhaps it was sissy. He was not going to tell his friend Doogie Miller about the velvet doublet. Doogie Miller was a year older than Jason and a good head taller. His father owned his own boat, and when he was old enough Doogie was going out with him as deckhand. Doogie's good opinion mattered a great deal to Jason.

He finished his egg and drank his milk. He looked at Aunt Isobel across the table, and decided to have a last try, for he was not a child to be easily diverted.

“I could carry things for you. I could help Watty.”

Isobel reached across the table to rumple his hair. “Yes, I know you could, and you'd do it beautifully, but you have to go to school. And Antony's coming back this afternoon, so he'll be here to help Watty.”

Jason had forgotten about Antony. “He's coming back this afternoon?” Aunt Isobel nodded. Jason said no more, but he sighed deeply, with satisfaction. His aunt smiled at him lovingly, not realizing that he was already deep into schemes to get Antony to put some feathers on the arrows he had made last weekend.

*   *   *

Later in the morning Anna Stoddart turned the Ardmore Land Rover in at the gates of Fernrigg, bumped along the potholed drive (when was somebody going to get those holes filled in?), and drew up on the gravel, alongside a blue van which she recognized as that belonging to Mr. Anderson of the Tarbole Station Hotel. The front door of the house stood open. Anna got out of the Land Rover and, with her hands in the pockets of her sheepskin coat, went up the steps.

Already the hall had been stripped of furniture and rugs, with those pieces of furniture too heavy to be moved pushed to the walls. Mrs. Watty, driving an old-fashioned polisher that made a sound like a jet engine, was engaged in buffing up the parquet. Isobel was coming downstairs with a pile of clean white tablecloths in her arms, and Watty was making his way down the kitchen passage with huge baskets of logs to be stacked by the open fireplaces. They all saw her, greeted her with smiles or nods, and continued on their way. Isobel did say, over the top of the pile of linen, “Anna, how lovely to see you,” but she said it an absent sort of way, and when she reached the foot of the stairs did not stop but continued straight on, heading for the dining room. Anna, not knowing what else to do, followed her.

The big table had been drawn to one side of the room, and was already spread with red felt pads. Onto these Isobel now dumped her burden. “Heavens, they're heavy. Thank goodness we don't use them every day.”